Eight

FOR THE REST of the week I worked quite hard, talking to all the people I needed for my scheme to work, trying to convince Gilbert and Otto that it was the best way to go, ensuring that everybody involved received the information I wanted them to have but not the information I didn’t want them to have. Oh, and sucking cocks.

Cocksucking seemed to be playing an increasingly important part in my scheme. I’d done Gilbert, Otto, Vernon and the entire kinky element of the Aviators club, Stubbs the commissionaire, Earle Hayes and Anton Yoshida, the black cabbie whose name I didn’t even know, Blake and Lucas. In fact, by the end of the week I’d done many of them twice or even three times, most of them either making me swallow or doing it in my face. The sensation of having to suck a man’s penis in order to try and influence a business deal was every bit as exciting as I’d anticipated, with all the delicious feelings of shame and obligation, but by Friday my jaw ached so badly I could hardly talk, and I was sure I had started to put on weight because of all the spunk I’d eaten.

I spent Friday night at home, eating Chinese food in the bath and drinking a bottle of Riesling while watching an old film. By morning I felt more or less ready for the world, and for Earle Hayes, although my cane welts still showed, as a set of lines just fractionally pinker than the rest of my bottom. That was enough to give me a frisson of embarrassment as I made my way to London City Airport and waited for the Bordeaux flight.

Earle had agreed to meet me at the airport, and turned up in a white suit, a hat and a bright-red shirt, with a thong tie fastened with an ostentatiously large malachite clasp. He caught the surprise in my face, despite my attempt to smile brightly, but simply laughed.

‘I like to play up the American angle while I’m in France,’ he explained. ‘It keeps the growers off guard and it goes down well with the boys at home.’

He was in good humour, explaining how he adjusted his image to suit the circumstances, as he found me a trolley and wheeled it out to his hire car. That made it easy to relax, and as I settled back into the seat I was thoroughly looking forward to the weekend. I’d expected to be staying at a hotel in the city, and was surprised when he turned on to the ring road instead of following the Centre Ville signs.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Pomerol,’ he told me. ‘We’re guests at Château La-Croix-de-Pignon.’

I nodded, impressed. La-Croix-de-Pignon was one of those few châteaux whose reputation had risen to the point at which only the super-rich could afford to drink the wine regularly, in no small part thanks to Earle.

‘The new owners are determined to make a splash,’ he explained, ‘so they’ve invited a group of us to celebrate the release of their ’05.’

‘New owners?’

‘Sure, didn’t you know? When old man Saint-Cibard died his heirs couldn’t agree on how to run things, nor on very much else by the sound of things. They ended up selling to the Blanquefort family, which really means Southern and Allied.’

‘Oh. That’s another fine estate down the pan, then.’

‘Let’s try it first, shall we?’

‘You’re right, of course, but their new Kavanagh Cordon Noir Cognac is a complete rip-off.’

He answered with a non-committal shrug and went quiet as he concentrated on passing a brace of lorries. When he spoke again it was to discuss the vintage. Apparently the dry start to autumn had allowed them to pick at least some grapes in reasonable condition, so it wasn’t going to be the complete disaster I’d been expecting. Inevitably a lot of the growers were claiming a last-minute miracle and asking prices higher than the year before, among them several of the big names, but Earle was intending to be cautious and advise against rushing out to buy stock, an attitude that struck me as refreshingly honest in comparison to Anton Yoshida’s.

Anton, I realised, was very likely to be there, which brought back the mixed feelings he’d inspired in me; anger, of course, but also a completely involuntary arousal. I told myself I’d keep my feelings carefully hidden and stick close to Earle, making it very clear that I wasn’t interested, though I knew Yoshida was more likely to be amused than jealous.

We’d crossed the river before Earle finished his explanation, and as we climbed into the low hills of the Entre-Deux-Mers he fell silent for a while. When he did speak again there was a new tone to his voice, a hint of tension as he cautiously sounded me out.

‘We have one of the best suites,’ he said, ‘the Louis Treize. They’re all named after French kings, because they had enough called Louis to go around eighteen rooms. Ours is mighty fine, with a four-poster bed, nearly three hundred years old, apparently.’

‘You’d better have me on a chair, then,’ I joked. ‘We wouldn’t want to break the bed.’

He laughed, relaxed again, then went on.

‘Say, it was good that first time, after the Corkscrew tasting, wasn’t it? Took me right back that did, right back to my high-school days, parking up with some sweet little popsy . . .’

He trailed off with a sigh, but I could easily image the memories he’d be dwelling on. I wasn’t sure how old he was, but he had to have been a teenager during the late 50s and early 60s, which meant he’d have been in some big, old-fashioned American car, beside a girl with a high pony-tail and her tight jumper pulled up over her tits while she tugged at his cock or, if he was very lucky or very pushy, sucked it.

I never cease to be amazed at my sexuality. In the previous month I’d taken so many cocks in my mouth I’d lost count, and yet the thought of being made to suck Earle off in his car still gave me a deliciously naughty thrill. We could recreate his memory, or my version of it, with my breasts out and the radio playing as I brought him to orgasm in my mouth and forced myself to swallow. Suddenly I needed it, badly, but my jaw muscles gave a twinge of protest and I decided to make my offer a little less generous.

‘I suppose I’d better toss you off,’ I told him, ‘otherwise you might lose control and fuck me. Park up then, you dirty bastard.’

He understood immediately, grinning as he put his foot down. I didn’t know the area, despite having driven up and down this motorway several times before, but he obviously did. Turning off at the top of the hill, he quickly found a track running between vineyards on one side and a thick wood on the other. The vines were shorn of their grapes and the yellow-brown leaves hung limply or were scattered on the ground. The growers were presumably all busy indoors working with barrels and vats. Nobody was about.

Earle parked at the very end of the track, where a circle of open ground, half-hidden in the trees, allowed tractors to turn. He backed in, positioning the car so that we’d get ample warning if anybody came our way, and turned the engine off, leaving us in silence.

‘Get your dirty cock out then,’ I told him and began to tug my top out from my jeans.

He didn’t need telling, unzipping his fly as I pulled up my top and bra to bare my breasts. They felt lovely naked, very sensitive, with my nipples already stiff, but when he reached out for them I wagged a finger at him.

‘Oh, no, you don’t, mister. You can look, but you can’t touch.’

He grinned, understanding. His cock was out, his balls too, bulging from the fly of his smart white trousers. There’s something deliciously obscene about a man’s genitals sticking out of his fly when he’s otherwise fully dressed, even when he’s limp. It’s better still when he’s hard, a nice stiff cock shaft rearing up above the sack of his balls: arousing, even a little bit frightening. I lost no time in taking him in hand, wanking slowly up and down, imagining what I was doing as a disagreeable but necessary task, disagreeable because no gentleman would ever make a girl play with his prick, necessary because if I didn’t wank him off I’d get fucked.

I knew it was all nonsense, but it made a lovely fantasy as he slowly grew stiff in my hand, and as I grew more excited I let my mind wander to different and ruder permutations. Simply wanking off my boyfriend to avoid a rough fucking was nice, but it was better still to imagine myself a virgin, with the prospect of getting my hymen popped if I didn’t manage to bring him off in my hand. He was a lot older than me too, allowing me to think of him not as my boyfriend but as my boss, some philandering bastard who’d lured me out in his car and given me a straight choice, get him off in my hand or have my virgin cunt fucked.

He was rock-hard, his eyes flicking lazily over my bare boobs as I wanked him. He was thoroughly in control, and I was just his dirty girl. I began to stroke and squeeze his balls, teasing him in the rising hope that he would lose control and fuck me. It was what I needed, but I had to be taken. When he let his seat down I thought he was going to do it, but he stayed as he was, lying back in comfort while I was forced to adjust my position, kneeling on the seat with my boobs jiggling as I went back to tossing his cock.

I popped the top button of my jeans, just to give him the idea of pulling them down, panties and all, and sticking his lovely cock right up me. Still he didn’t respond, his face now slack with ecstasy and his breathing hard and deep. He was going to spunk in my hand, leaving me to frig off over my fantasy, which was nice but not as nice as a good rough fucking. I pulled down my zip, allowing him to see the little ribbon bow at the top of my panties, and went back to stroking his balls.

‘You . . . you’re not going to use me, are you?’ I ventured, making my eyes as big as possible and giving my tits a little shake.

‘Christ, but you’re horny!’ he swore, and got up.

There was nothing fake about my squeal of surprise as I was manhandled into position, spread out on his seat with my legs rolled up, my jeans and panties jerked unceremoniously down over my hips and bottom, baring me to his cock. He stuck it in with one, hard thrust and I was being fucked, just the way I’d wanted it, hard and crude. I couldn’t get to my pussy or I’d have been frigging immediately, but it didn’t matter.

With every push the broad, smooth buckle of his outsize belt pressed into me and I knew that would be enough to get me there. I was genuinely helpless, trapped beneath his weight, and I knew he wasn’t going to stop. All I could do was cling on to the seat and push my hips up to increase the friction on my pussy, which made my position more awkward and painful, just as I wanted it to be.

In my mind he was my boss, some utter bastard who’d pressured me into sex, promising not to take my virginity if I tossed him off, but then fucked me anyway, my virgin blood trickling down my bum slit as I was pounded into the seat of his car. Worse, far worse, he could have been my uncle, tricking his innocent niece first into showing him her titties, then taking his dirty cock in her hand, only to lose control completely and fuck her . . . fuck me, strip me and fuck me, strip me and fuck me and spunk up me to leave me torn and pregnant.

I came, bucking furiously against his body as his belt buckle slapped on my clit and his cock drove in and out, ever faster. Three times he brought me to a peak before whipping his cock out at the last instant and jerking himself off between my bum cheeks. I felt the hot come spatter on my anus, and as it began to trickle down I was still imagining it as the blood from my ruined hymen.

Our session in the woods made an excellent start to the weekend. Château La-Croix-de-Pignon was every bit as magnificent as Earle had implied. It had apparently been converted in order to entertain wealthy clients and pundits, with no expense spared on either the ancient furnishings or the ultra-modern infrastructure. Never before had I seen a genuine Louis Quinze desk with a laptop built in, and although I guessed it would have given an antique collector apoplexy it was certainly both smart and convenient. The bed was better still, with satin sheets, and had I not drained Earle half an hour before he would have had me then and there while I changed out of my jeans into a dress.

We spent the early afternoon being shown around and introduced to people, including many I’d have been more than eager to meet when I’d first taken up my job. None of that really mattered now, but it was still useful and I stayed on best behaviour, smiling and flirting a little when the situation called for it. As I’d suspected, Anton Yoshida was there, and his arrogant smirk as he greeted me was the only unpleasant moment until the time came to taste the newly bottled ’05.

I’d expected a tour of the winery but they were altogether too grand for that, instead presenting the ’oh-five vintage in a magnificent drawing room looking out across the lawns and vineyards towards Vieux Château Certan. Everybody smacked their lips and made approving noises, although at a release price well in excess of £1,000 a bottle I wouldn’t be bothering to put any down myself. Anton Yoshida seemed to think otherwise, and made a long and unctuous speech about the legendary status of the vintage and the great potential of the wine, citing it as a rival to Pétrus itself and an excellent investment opportunity. A good many of our fellow guests were wealthy businessmen, many from the Far East, who took him at his word and made out presumably enormous cheques on the spot.

That was my second bad moment, because the amount of money changing hands, if perhaps not quite enough to pull Hambling and Borse around, would have been a major step in the right direction. It was exactly the sort of transaction I had imagined myself conducting, or at the least influencing, but thanks to Anton Yoshida I’d been firmly locked out. I’d been abused and humiliated into the bargain, and the worst of it was that the memory sparked a sudden surge of excitement, quite involuntary and so strong it hurt.

I turned to the window in an effort to hide my emotions, wishing I had better control of them, although I knew perfectly well that it was that very inability to resist that gave the greatest pleasure. Yoshida was just feet away, assuring some Chinese bigwig that he was making a sensible choice, and I did my best to shut out his voice. A lorry was visible beyond some trees on one side of the vineyard, moving in among a cluster of low, modern buildings half hidden by foliage, evidently the actual winery. I could see why we hadn’t been taken there. No doubt brand-new and state-of-the-art, it lacked the air of mystique that was essential for charging prices out of all proportion to the sensual pleasure of the wine. Not that the buyers cared, because they almost certainly wouldn’t drink it themselves but would sell it on at a profit, a point underlined as Yoshida’s voice forced itself back into my reverie.

‘. . . a very sound investment indeed, I assure you. Prices have been rising at an unprecedented rate and there is every reason to believe that they will continue to do so. Of one thing you can be certain, Château La-Croix-de-Pignon will receive excellent publicity, as will this particular vintage.’

He wasn’t even attempting to appear independent, promoting the wine for all he was worth, and I wondered if Southern and Allied were actually paying him or if he intended to make a killing by buying stock himself and talking it up, or both. I bit my lip in irritation, wishing I had a fraction of his influence, or could at least enlist Earle to my cause, and I had to remind myself forcefully that I’d chosen a different path.

I was still staring resentfully out of the window when a hand was laid gently on my shoulder. Expecting Earle, I turned with a smile, only to find myself looking up into the cool, haughty face of Anton Yoshida.

‘You’re very good at getting yourself into prestigious events,’ he remarked. ‘In fact, I didn’t know they invited shopgirls at all.’

‘I’m here as Mr Hayes’s guest,’ I told him, keeping my voice as cold as I could manage.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I do apologise, not a shopgirl then. I didn’t realise you were Earle’s tart.’

I felt the blood rush to my face, and restrained myself with difficulty from planting my knee in his crotch as he went on.

‘Isn’t he a little old for you? A little straight-laced too, I would imagine?’

‘Not at all,’ I said icily. ‘He is a very considerate lover, which is more than can be said for some people.’

He laughed.

‘Ah, yes, I tied you up and left you for a while, didn’t I? But you mustn’t be resentful. I only did it to teach you a lesson, and you did rather enjoy it, didn’t you?’

‘No, I did not!’ I snapped, but my face was crimson and we both knew I was lying.

He responded with a knowing smirk, so smug, so superior, that for a second time I had to fight down the urge to hit him. I was close to tears as well, and he must have realised, but he wasn’t finished with me.

‘You did,’ he said, ‘and, as it happens, so did I, so once you’ve put Earle to bed with a mug of cocoa and let him jerk off over your fat, white, Anglo-Saxon breasts or whatever it is he likes to do to you, why don’t you come up to my suite for something more worthwhile? A little bondage perhaps, in a kneeling position, I think. I’m in the Louis Quatorze.’

‘I’d sooner have sex with a diseased warthog!’

‘Hmm . . . well, I’m not certain I can manage a warthog, but Monsieur Blanquefort has a magnificent Great Dane who could probably be persuaded to mount you. Perhaps I could even persuade some of my friends to come and watch.’

‘Pig!’

‘If you insist, although I understand that their cocks are rather small, and having had the experience of your cunt I expect the Great Dane would be a better fit.’

This time I couldn’t stop myself. My leg came up, as hard as I could, but he was too quick, or more likely he was used to girls trying to knee him in the balls. I missed, nearly fell over and only kept my balance by grabbing the curtain, which fortunately was sturdy enough to hold me. Anton pretended to offer an arm as he made a quick apology to the little knot of guests who’d noticed.

‘She is a little drunk, I’m afraid, but we must forgive her. I don’t suppose a girl her age has the opportunity to drink wine of such quality very often, if at all.’

The men were all from the Far East and bobbed politely in response, but I was left with my face and chest blushing red-hot, furious and with tears coursing down my cheeks. I could have cheerfully killed him, but with an immense effort of will I managed to bring myself back under control, and was about to give him my opinion of his behaviour, quietly but without reserve, when Earle appeared.

‘Are you all right, Natasha?’ he asked, with a nod for Anton.

‘My heel,’ I said hurriedly, ‘it got caught in the ventilator and I twisted my foot.’

‘I see. Anyway, Anton, I see you’re keen, and I confess that it has structure and balance, as any respectable wine from the vintage should, but I’m not convinced it’s greatly superior to its neighbours.’

‘I think the market will agree with my verdict,’ Anton responded, every bit as arrogant towards Earle as he had been to me, if less rude.

‘The market will follow your verdict, don’t you mean?’ I said, determined to at least try and puncture his ego. ‘Even up to ten times the sensible price.’

He merely shrugged.

‘I am influential, it is true, and justly so. People rely on my opinions, as they do on Mr Hayes’s, but you clearly have no understanding of how these things work. These are not wines to be compared like for like, as you might when deciding which of two vins ordinaires you intend to use to wash down your roast beef. The price represents the wine’s prestige, and without that prestige it is nothing. Do you suppose Mr Zhang over there would entertain his clients with a bottle costing ten pounds, or even a hundred pounds? The concept would be unutterably shameful to him. No, prestigious wines must be expensive, and be seen to be expensive. Hence the price.’

‘But why Château La-Croix-de-Pignon?’ I asked, hoping he had such a low opinion of me that he’d admit to being, to all intents and purposes, bribed.

He was not to be caught so easily.

‘It is the best,’ he said, ‘or, at least, one of a handful which can compete for the title of the best each year.’

I’d expected Earle to say something in my defence, but he remained silent, his nose deep in his glass.

‘How can you be so certain?’ I demanded. ‘Have you tasted the ’05 from every property in Bordeaux, or even Pomerol?’

‘I taste only the best.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. How can you know what the best is until you’ve tasted it?’

‘By the technique and quality of viticulture and vinification,’ he replied airily. ‘Why should I trouble to taste a wine I know to be badly made? Besides, the petits châteaux cannot afford to make great wine.’

‘Fifty years ago La-Croix-de-Pignon was considered a petit château.’

‘Exactly, but it has the land, which is why M. Blanquefort has chosen to invest, an investment which in turn justifies the price.’

‘But you just said the price was a function of . . . oh, never mind.’

He was making me cross and I could see he thought it was funny. Nor was Earle going to help, as I discovered when he finally withdrew his nose from his glass.

‘Mr Yoshida is right,’ he said with infuriating complacency. ‘The trade at this level has very little to do with the simple, sensual pleasures you appreciate so much and everything to do with supply and demand. Mr Yoshida and I ensure that what is presented as the best really is the best. Without us, goodness knows what horrible stuff the wealthy would be drinking.’

‘Cordon Noir Cognac?’ I suggested in what I knew was a pretty feeble sally.

‘The economics are not easy to understand,’ Yoshida said, openly implying that I was stupid.

Both men nodded. I gave up, angry and embarrassed. Cask samples of the ’06 had been set out on a side table and I went over, intrigued to find how the château had coped with a poor year. I hadn’t had a chance to taste any, but I’d read the vintage reports, which dwelt on bad weather leading to thin wine with harsh tannins. Both Gilbert and Earle had said that Pomerol had come off best, but only those producers who’d been rigorous about discarding all but the best grapes had managed to make good wine.

The wine was curious: big, rich and fruity, with very little of the sharp acidity or bitter tannin I’d been expecting, and entirely different from my experience of Pomerol in poor years. Nevertheless, given it blind I wasn’t sure I’d even have recognised it as Bordeaux, and it was far inferior to the ’05 in quality – though not price, which had been reduced by only fifteen per cent. Most extraordinarily of all, it was going to be ready in four or five years. I was forced to admit that there might be something in what Anton Yoshida had said. No producer without a lot of money behind them could have afforded to make such a good wine in such a poor year.

I turned to look out of the window while I finished my glass, found myself staring at the biggest, blackest dog I had ever seen and turned quickly back – to find myself staring at Rhiannon, an altogether more attractive sight, despite being painted purple and having vine leaves and bunches of grapes in her hair. Her dress was a sort of Roman tunic, tightly belted but loose at chest and hips, also purple and extremely short.

She was giving out brochures to the guests, making a little curtsy as she handed each one over. A good many of the men present were giving her surreptitious glances, a few admiring her openly, and I could see their point. Despite the silly costume she looked enchanting, and if she bent even slightly she was going to be making a show of her bottom. I walked over, delighted to see her despite the hideously embarrassing circumstances of our last meeting. She smiled, bobbed and spoke quietly as she handed me a brochure.

‘Hi, nice to see you.’

‘You too. Why are you purple?’

‘I’m supposed to represent the spirit of the vine, but I’m not supposed to chat with the guests. See you later, yeah?’

She moved off, leaving me with my interest piqued. Her voice had been quiet and oddly shy, but also a little excited, unless that was just wishful thinking. Things hadn’t worked out in Paris, and she definitely came under the heading of unfinished business, but I hadn’t expected to see her again. Now, with her pretty legs twinkling as she walked and her little round bottom bobbing under her skirt, she looked infinitely desirable, and her sweet, shy attitude only enhanced her charm.

Being with Earle made things awkward, because while I’d have been perfectly happy with a threesome the suggestion would almost certainly scare her off. The only other possibility seemed to be to try and seduce her as fast as I could and hope to grab a quickie or two over the course of the weekend, but that was neither certain to work nor particularly satisfying. What I really wanted was several hours alone together so that we could thoroughly explore each other, but that didn’t look like being feasible.

I promised myself that I’d catch up with her if I could, and went back to my wine, now feeling frustrated as well as irritable. Earle was still talking to Anton Yoshida and they were now the centre of a knot of businessmen, all tasting the ’06 and listening politely. I thought of going into the garden, remembered the Great Dane and changed my mind. With nothing better to do, I went to watch the sun set, dwelling on what the coming night might bring as the vineyards were splashed with gold and rosy pinks that couldn’t help reminding me of the colour of smacked bottom flesh.

It was announced that dinner would be in half an hour, and I hurried upstairs to change. The meal proved to be an extraordinarily drawn-out affair. M. Blanquefort at least had better taste than the Kavanaghs, serving a brilliant succession of wines from the family estates, beginning with a fresh, dry crémant, through Entre-Deux-Mers and white Graves, Fronsac, Château La-Croix-de-Pignon itself from the ’66 and ’70 vintages, Margaux, St-Estèphe and finally a luxurious old Sauternes. Each wine was accompanied by a suitable delicacy, and with Earle very much the centre of attention at our table I was left pretty much to myself, save for having to flirt a little with the ancient Chinese businessman to my left.

Rhiannon was one of the waitresses, along with several others in the same purple outfit, and as the wine did its work on me it grew harder and harder not to watch her, especially as each time she bent to serve, her dress would lift just enough to show the double curve of a beautiful little peach and a triangle of purple panties clinging lovingly to her cheeks. I wanted to pull them down and spank her, to smother my face in her hot bottom and lick her to ecstasy from behind, to have her sit it in my face and laugh at me while I licked her anus.

None of it was likely to happen, but by the time M. Blanquefort had got through the toasts and people had begun to disperse I was feeling impossibly horny. Cognac, coffee and chocolates were being served in the drawing room in which they’d held the tasting, with Rhiannon serving. In different company I’d have had her on the floor, but while I’m sure most of the men would have enjoyed the show it was obviously out of the question. Even speaking to her privately was next to impossible, but I finally managed it, hissing a question as she filled my coffee cup while Earle was distracted.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The girls’ dormitory block, across the main courtyard, room twelve.’

Her answer was shy and uncertain, but also breathless, giving me a sharp pang of desire. I made to speak again, but M. Blanquefort himself was approaching and a moment later the head waiter had told her off to fetch fresh coffee, leaving me more frustrated than ever, and more expectant. She had to be game, I was sure of it, or almost sure, but I was going to try my luck anyway, whatever the consequences.